by Jess Faraday
“It wasn’t?” Then what the devil was the problem?
His expression grew serious again, and he took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Simon, you’re not that much older than I am. But sometimes you act as if you think I can’t look after myself. I can, you know.”
What? “I know that.”
“I don’t think you do, or you wouldn’t have thrown me to the ground like some helpless girl.”
“That’s what you were so upset about? Protecting people is my job,” I said.
“We both had a job to do this morning. And you kept me from doing mine.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
He shook his head. “Is this what it’s like keeping company with a policeman?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never kept company with a policeman.”
This time he laughed out loud. But it was a strained sort of laugh.
“I’ve never kept company with anyone before, Cal. This is all foreign territory. Sometimes what seems like the right thing is completely wrong.”
“Simon, it’s been two months.”
“That’s two months longer than I’ve ever been with anyone,” I said.
Annoyance flashed across his sharp features then softened to disappointment. He gently ran a finger over my scratched, swollen cheek. If anyone else had done that, it would have hurt. But at that moment, I wished his fingers would stay there forever.
“Simon, what the devil happened to you?”
“Had to subdue a suspect this morning.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What in God’s name do you mean, then? Because I’m completely lost.”
“Yes…you are.” The collar of my uniform had turned up, and he took a moment to tuck it back down. He exhaled, then brushed a bit of rain off the front of my coat. “You may be better in a fight, Simon,” he said softly. “But when it comes to human relations, I think you’re the one who needs looking after.”
“You may be right.”
“I’d like to be the one who looks after you.”
“I’d like that, too.”
And once again, just when I thought the conversation was pointed back in the right direction, he looked straight through me. Splotches of pink were gathering on his cheekbones and the tip of his nose. I didn’t think they were from the heat. And in his expression I saw that that nothing would ever be right again.
“Of course you’ll be going back to London one of these days. Won’t you?”
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. It was true, and I wished with everything in me that it was not. I wanted to tell him how I couldn’t walk down the streets anymore without every ‘room to let’ notice jumping out at me like some sign from above. Or how I kept meaning to ask about vacancies with the Edinburgh Police. But it was much too soon to be be thinking about uprooting my life for the sake of someone else. Wasn’t it?
“That’s what I thought,” Cal said, obviously mistaking my silence for the answer he’d feared.
“Cal—”
“Don’t.”
He held up his hands and stepped away, his eyes glittering, though that may have simply been the reflection of the light from the lamp on the side table.
“Come with me,” I said. At least I thought it was me. He hadn’t spoken, and there was no one else in the room.
“Are you insane?”
“Why not? You can study medicine in London, you know.”
“But I don’t want to study medicine in London. Everything important is happening here.”
“Surely they teach the same—”
“No, they surely do not. Besides, Uncle Henry is paying for me to study here. He’s introduced me to all the most important people. He’s helping me to lay down the foundation to have my own practice one day—”
“Makes me wonder what he’s getting out of it.”
Again, that disembodied voice that could not possibly have been mine. And yet, somehow, horribly, it was. Cal’s jaw dropped. For a moment I thought he might strike me. I might have felt better if he had.
“How dare you,” he said. The coldness in his voice was worse than a blow. And worse than that was the betrayal in his eyes, hot and molten and glistening.
“Cal—”
“Get out.”
He didn’t need to say it twice. I left so fast that I was nearly to the street before I heard him slam the front door shut.
•••
I slunk into the station the next morning in yesterday’s uniform, my head pounding, and my mouth like the bottom of a bird’s cage. A few of the early arriving constables looked up. No doubt the eye-watering public house fumes had preceded me into the room. It would probably have been wise to go back to the section house to sleep off my excesses. But I knew I’d just lie on the hard mattress and stare holes into the ceiling. The least I could do was to try to be useful, as unrealistic a prospect as that actually was.
“Pearce,” Chief Inspector Steward called from his office. The last thing I wanted was to try to make conversation with a superior officer. But no good ever came from ignoring the chief inspector. Besides, Steward was a good and fair man. I respected him. Gathering what was left of my shattered wits, I went to him.
“Sir?”
His expression hardened as he took in my rough appearance. The bruise on my cheekbone throbbed beneath his probing gaze, and I became even more conscious of the ghastly state of my clothes and hair.
“Been in a fight, Constable?”
“A bit of a scuffle with a suspect,” I said.
He nodded. “Heard about that. Guid work. But ye smell like a distillery. Come in, and sit down before ye fall down.”
They didn’t mince words up here. Embarrassment added to the sour mix churning in my stomach. I perched on the edge of his guest chair and braced myself for a reprimand. Steward was not one to bend the rules. In fact, like most of his countrymen, he seemed to put inordinate stock in maintaining them for their own sake. But he also possessed a keen and independent mind. I hoped it would allow him to look past this grave transgression.
“Shut the door,” he said. I did. “Are ye still drunk, or just suffering?”
“Suffering, sir.”
“A lot?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Learned your lesson?” I nodded. “Guid. I trust this isn’t a habit.”
“No, sir. It’s…an aberration.” My voice was an aberration. My throat felt like half a mile of rough road. I really should have begged off and pled illness, but it was too late now. “It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.”
“Yes, sir.”
He let out a long breath and sat back in his chair. An envelope sat on his desk. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. They were large, long-fingered, hard-working hands, and, unlike his face, which was partially hidden by great, gray-flecked blond sideburns, his hands showed his age.
“This arrived yesterday.” He held the envelope up. I recognized the London postmark and the return address at Whitehall Place. “Scotland Yard wants ye back. But despite your current state, I’ve a mind to make ye a better offer.”
“Sir?”
“We couldn’t have tied up the MacKay business without ye. And you’re proving your worth again with the museum case.”
“I’m doing my job, sir.”
“I’d like ye to do your job for us.”
“Sir?”
“When MacKay went down, I moved up. That left us short one detective inspector. The men respect ye, and you’re already doing the work. Ye should have the position, and the pay, if ye want it.”
I’d no idea what to say. Part of me did want it, more than anything. To be promoted to detective inspector this early in one’s career was unheard of. I’d wanted this since I was six years old.
At the same time, how the devil could I stay anywhere near Edinburgh after last night?
“Of course no one would blame ye for wanting to get back to London. O
ur little hamlet probably can’t provide the excitement you’re used to.”
“I like Edinburgh very much, sir.”
He allowed himself a ghost of a smile. “Guid, guid. But this is a big decision. Take the day to think about it. And for God’s sake have a rest and a wash. I’ll expect your answer first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Actually, sir,” I said. “I was going to go to the museum today. I have a theory about the case.”
I’d been thinking about it quite a lot, as I’d wandered through the city, watching morning simmer at the edges of the black sky. Once the idea had sparked, I’d been unable to push it aside. It had been the thing to keep me moving after the bartender had kicked me out, rather than finding another pub where I could finish drinking myself into oblivion. I simply had to see if I was right.
Steward scoffed. “Not like that, you’ll not.”
“Please, sir,” I said, feeling purpose push back my self-pity. “I need to finish this.”
I’m not sure what he saw in my expression then, but it made him straighten in his chair.
“If ye must. But have Drummond come along, and get some strong coffee down ye first. And have a wash, man. If I hear any complaints, I’ll send ye back to London myself on the tip of my boot.”
•••
“Someone’s been up to the devil’s business,” Drummond said with a smirk as he, Hamish, and I walked north toward the museum. I was full of coffee, now, and I’d had a wash at the pump behind the station house. My hair was damp beneath my cap, and the wind whistling through it and pelting us with breadcrumb-sized bits of hail was slowly reviving me.
“Hair of the dog?” He patted the pocket with the flask of spirits he kept for fainting ladies and shock victims.
“If it would make me feel less wretched, I’d eat the hair of that dog.”
Drummond laughed. “In my experience, only a woman can cause a man that sort of misery.” He laughed even harder at my subsequent glare. “And from your expression, you’re either going to have to marry that lass or run away back to London.”
“I assure you it’s nothing of the sort.”
“Glad to hear it. Hate to think you’d be the type to leave one of our fine lassies in the lurch.”
“That will never happen,” I said. Drummond nodded approvingly. He took honor, especially toward lassies, very seriously.
“Well, if you want to hash it out over a meal later, gie me a shout.” I wouldn’t, of course. But I did appreciate the offer. “As for now, Steward said you have a theory about our murder.”
“Yes,” I said. And I proceeded to lay it out for him.
My theory had started with the realization that I was a bungler and a clod. That is, that it was possible for a person to be so certain of something as to be blind to the possibility that he might be missing the mark completely. And from there, all manner of disastrous things can follow.
I’d assumed that since Findlay and Miss Wallace were on first-name terms, that Miss Wallace shared Findlay’s romantic attachment. It made sense. They were both intelligent, educated, attractive people who worked in close proximity and shared some unique interests. But just because their relationship made sense didn’t mean that she would want it. People did a lot of things that didn’t make sense—and refused many things that did. It was one of the things that made people so frustrating.
Findlay’s ardor, however, was never in question. Neither was Miss Wallace’s hatred for the curator. Could Findlay have murdered the curator at Miss Wallace’s behest? Or possibly for what he might have taken for her behest? Might he have done it to impress her—like a valiant knight, saving her from the wicked villain? It seemed unlikely that Findlay would murder Dr. Selkirk in cold blood. On the other hand, if he didn’t like the way Selkirk was treating his fair lady, and he saw himself as her rescuer, and there was a chance he might assume Selkirk’s position once the curator was out of the way….
“Now there’s a motive to write home about,” Drummond said.
I hoped I was wrong.
We arrived about an hour before opening. The guard led us inside. The cleaning staff must have worked into the night tidying the place. It was immaculate. The two front galleries were cleaned and swept until not a splinter remained. Glass and metal were polished to a shine, and my erstwhile interrogation room was once again a perfect cloakroom.
“One moment, please, constables,” the guard said. “I’ll fetch Dr. Findlay.”
As he left, Drummond and I had a nose around the exhibition gallery.
“Place looks good,” Drummond said, gazing at the newly arranged displays of artifacts.
“As if nothing had happened at all,” I replied.
Someone had even repaired the dais. The damage from the explosion appeared minimal, and repairs had been a matter of replacing a few floorboards. The stone sarcophagus was back on its stand, a series of smaller artifacts arranged in displays around it. I saw canopic jars, a few metal and clay statues, and little bits of things whose import was detailed on accompanying placards.
“Where’s the honey pot?” Drummond asked, as Hamish snuffled at the base of the sarcophagus.
“Eh?”
“I read they found a three thousand year old jar of honey.”
I’d read that, too. In fact, it had been one of the centerpieces of the exhibition. But Drummond was right. We both searched the gallery twice, and there was no sign of it. Before I could remark on it, Findlay arrived.
“Constables, good morning.”
The assistant curator seemed to have come through the ordeal in fine shape. His shirt and trousers were clean and pressed, and he wore a different tweed jacket. He’d shaved, and there was a whiff of cologne about him. He appeared to have recovered his energy, and maybe even a bit more. We shook hands, and he reached out to give Hamish a pat. The dog drew his huge head back sharply. Drummond had once told me that dogs have the same range of emotions that humans do, and an almost supernatural ability to sniff out a person on the verge of a criminal act. I’d written it off as sentimental nonsense. But at that moment, I could have sworn that if Hamish had been human, he’d have slapped Findlay’s hand away.
“Careful, there, sir,” Drummond said, with a sideways glance to me. “This one’s a police dug, and he takes his job aye serious.”
“Oh.” The assistant smiled nervously and made a little bow toward the dog. “Pardon me, Constable Canine.”
I said, “We came to thank you, Dr. Findlay, for all your assistance yesterday. We’d have been there all night, if you hadn’t helped to keep things running like you did.”
“It was my pleasure,” Findlay replied. “Tell me, did you apprehend him, then?”
“Who do you mean, sir?” Drummond asked.
“Salim Al-Mahdi, of course.” Findlay’s expression became tight, and his eyes glittered with that same tense energy that had seemed to animate him the other day. “He was against this exhibition from the start. Wanted the prince and his companion returned to Egypt. You saw him right there, when the explosion happened. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he killed Dr. Selkirk as well.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Drummond straighten. Hamish, taking the cue, rose to his enormous feet.
I said, “This is quite a departure from your statement yesterday, sir. Yesterday, you said you’d not been aware of any threats to the museum or the exhibition. Moreover, you never mentioned Dr. Al-Mahdi at all—which is most strange, as he was standing right in front of you during your address. I’d have thought—”
What I was about to say next was interrupted by the clatter of hard wooden heels on the floorboards. Miss Wallace burst into the room from the door behind the dais.
“It wasn’t Salim!” she cried.
“Henrietta,” Findlay began. She cut him off.
“Salim didn’t mind the exhibition carrying on, as long as the mummies would go back to Egypt straight away. I promised him—”
“You promised him?” I sai
d.
“Henrietta, no!” Findlay cried.
“Malcom, please. We can’t let Salim take the blame for something I did.”
Something she did? Was she talking about the murder or the explosion? Moreover, my mind raced to understand how a female typist might have found herself on a first name basis with a scholar from a country that maintained a strict separation of men and women.
In his own interview, Dr. Al-Mahdi had spoken of Miss Wallace as if he’d never seen, or spoken with her, in his life.
Miss Wallace was wearing the same colorful scarf around her neck. But she, too, had changed her clothes. The dress she wore now was still dowdy by London standards, but it was tastefully cut and in a color that complemented her pale complexion. In one hand, she clutched a bundle of letters. Seeing them, Findlay tensed, his jaw going tight.
“Malcom, I owe you my life, and I’ll never be able to repay you. But I can’t do this.” She turned to me, and handed me the stack of letters that Dr. Al-Mahdi’s had given me. I flipped through them to find that each had been carefully translated into English. In the same fine hand, using the same pointed nib.
The pointed nib of the expensive pen clipped to the front pocket of Miss Wallace’s dress.
As I read through the translations, the story became clear. Selkirk hadn’t corresponded with Al-Mahdi, but with Miss Wallace—Miss Wallace, who was fluent in six languages, and wrote with a bespoke pen with a pointed nib. The correspondence had begun with a letter of concern from Al-Mahdi—a gentlemanly request that the artifacts be returned to Egypt, instead of to the basement of some museum in far-away Britain. Over the months, it became clear that Al-Mahdi and Miss Wallace shared the belief that the artifacts belonged to Egypt, and should return home. It also became clear that the pair had developed an emotional attachment that went beyond collegiality.
Except Al-Mahdi had believed he was corresponding with Dr. Selkirk.
“I’m sorry, Malcom,” she said softly. And it became clear why Findlay was so eager to put the Egyptian scholar in the frame.
“You read the letters,” I said to him. “After I handed them off to you to be translated.”
His face was flushed now, and he looked as if he wished the floor would open up and swallow him.
